The Flat Where Elvis Always Plays
by TheLazyBAMF
Summary: If furniture could talk, they could tell you the tales of The Detective and The Woman while Elvis plays in the background. Every story has an ending, you just have to know when to stop to make it happy. Belated Birthday gift for TheWomanSherlocked


_**A/n: A belated gift for my good friend, TheWomanSherlocked! Think of it as a late entry to the challenge you gave me many months ago! Hope you enjoy!**_

 _ **The Flat Where Elvis Always Plays**_

There's a flat in London, a peaceful neighborhood though the old landlady could tell you stories of murders and explosions happening in the very street if you knew how to make her talk. The flat in London is still occupied. One must walk seventeen steps up the stairs and if the person inside permits it, one can enter the flat and be given the opportunity of observing it's inside decor. Was that Elvis playing in the background?

But one's eyes must not stray too far lest the skull on the mantelpiece distract you or for the bullet-ridden wall tickle your fancy. The most curious object in the room is contained in a simple drawer by the window, hidden in plain sight.

It was a fascinating place, the flat upstairs. It possessed an energy derived from all previous occupants of the flat, making every detail, every crack and crevice, important. You see but do not observe. If furniture could talk, the two chairs by the fireplace still held conversations for endless days. A stool would be set between them sometimes and then they would listen.  
The smiley face on the bullet-ridden wall maintains its smile through all its seen in this flat: Actual sword-fight, drug-overdoses, and being blown-up by a grenade. The couch has been through hell for all its life. Being salvaged from the aforementioned explosion, having chemicals spilt on it, having plasters from the wall crawl themselves up to every nook and cranny the couch never knew it had.

If furniture could speak, they would tell you tales of the misadventures of its occupants. If furniture could be drunk however, they would tell you of days they were both eager and reluctant to forget. The days filled with warmth and lazy afternoons just two people enjoying eachothers company.

There was a woman, they would say. Wormed her way through the posh boy's heart of stone, she did. The skull on the mantel remembered housing things the flatmate didn't want the detective to use when the woman left. The smiley face on the wall didn't need to rely on its artificial smile, in fact, he would tell you that he would be grinning if he had teeth! The woman has returned, you see, sneaking visits to the detective, riling him up and teasing him. The couch could remember her scent as she sat on it, the very scent that began to linger to the detective as the visits become more frequent.

The violin laid by the window could have cried every time it was picked up. One sorrowful christmas, it almost felt the loneliness in the detective's long fingers, it felt like its strings could break because of the pain. It could have wept for joy when love songs took over the melancholy theme of the composer.

The chairs were thoroughly embarrassed at what happened during some of the later visits. Intellectual sparring and verbal hurlings, they were used to that. But the unspeakable things done to them, they would shudder if they could. They could also throw glares at the couch who was probably grinning at them, glad that it was not to be subjected to such carnal activities for the night. If the flatmate ever knew what took place in his chair, he would burn the green chairs companion.

Every furniture in the living room were subjected to watch the odd couple fumbling around. They saw how their tongues would clash both physically and metaphorically. They were thoroughly frightened when the woman proved herself not above throwing them towards her detective in a fit of rage they all agreed to never speak of again.

The skull was in the middle of everything. He saw what others did not, he knew things the other furniture could never understand. Perhaps because he was once human, he would wonder. He bore witness to everything and what he didn't saw, the detective would tell him in hushed tones during the night. There was a time he was turned the other way by the woman, it wasn't really his fault they started in front of him! Honestly though!

His grinning visage could still remember the rainy evening when the flatmate was staying with a girlfriend. The fire was the only light source in the room, providing warmth for the two occupants sat on the chairs. The plucking on the violin was stopped.

" _Do you know how to dance?"_

" _No."_

" _I don't believe you. You seem like the dancing type."_

" _Ridiculous."_

" _Too bad. Come dance with me."_

" _There's no music to dance to."_

" _For God's sake, we live in a time of technology, use your phone. Now stop stalling and up you get."_

There was a pause and the skull lazily watched as the music began to flood the room. Gathering the attention of the inanimate objects.

" _Elvis?"_

" _Why not?"_

" _I was hoping you would pick something with more of a beat, if you know what I mean."_

" _I could change it-"_

" _No this is fine."_

The other furnitures wouldn't understand the warm feeling that intensified as the two join hands and the woman laid her head on his chest. But they did understand that this moment felt _right._

It was a turning point for them. Something grander awaited them in the future and though they still couldn't understand the emotions flooding their hearts and the sparks their minds would encounter, they both had this moment to look back on.

* * *

Surely you are not thinking that was the end of it? One did warn you that you will be distracted with the furnitures adorning this flat. You see but do not observe, one has stated that, didn't they?

One knows that every story has an ending and one could argue that there is no such thing as a happy ending. What one has is an illusion of a happy ending. Every story could be happy if one knows when to stop.

You did not come here for tales of old of the detective and his woman. You came here for the phone, stored in the drawer by the window, or did you forget? If you will, please.

If one would approach the window, one would be able to see the street below. The raining outside would cause drops to race down the bottom, reminiscent of how the detective saw the world years ago before he stored the phone away as a keepsake. If one would open the drawer and fetch the phone, it is charged, you see? The occupant had maintained a habit of charging it every three days or so.

It contains plenty of text messages but that is not what you are looking for. The file is on recorded calls.

If you play the call, you would hear screaming, gunshots going off, a labored breath on the other line informing you that they are running for their lives. Foreign tongues were screaming in anger, but amidst all that, you hear a whisper.

A whispered voice telling secrets they both already knew, contrasting the hushed tones, the other is frantic, yelling the same secrets.

They both knew their time would be cut short and so the other gathers their courage and prepared themselves to proclaim the truth either never spoke aloud. Fate is often ironic and cruel. This should be a happy, whimsical moment where they would say the same thing and give the other a loving look to muffle their laughter.

" _Mr. Holmes I-"_

" _Ms. Adler-"_

The phone call was cut off.

 _ **Wise men say,**_

 _ **only fools rush in**_

 _ **but I can't help**_

 _ **falling in love with you**_

 _ **A/N: First try on this pairing, hope you enjoyed!**_


End file.
